Pilgrim Soul
by firstadream
Summary: "But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, and loved the sorrows of your changing face." -William Butler Yeats


_So this is a random story that I picture taking place about a year after "Always". Just some good Caskett lovin' with a little angst thrown in for good measure. _

—

She woke up to his hand sliding down the side of her body. His voice whispering across her cheek.

"_When you are old and gray and full of sleep and nodding by the fire, take down this book, and slowly read, and dream of the soft look your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep._"

She opened her eyes and found him hovering over her, his face close, but still mostly in shadow. There was no moon tonight. She lifted a hand to his cheek. Brushed her thumb across his lips. Felt the words form into the air as he spoke them.

"_How many loved your moments of glad grace, and loved your beauty with love false or true. But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, and loved the sorrows of your changing face._"

He paused and leaned closer, brushing his mouth across her forehead, the high arch of her cheekbone, the sharp angle of her jaw.

"_And bending down beside the glowing bars, murmur, a little sadly, how love fled and paced upon the mountains overhead, and hid his face amid a crowd of stars._"

She gazed up at him, feeling the tension in his body from holding himself suspended over her. She wrapped her arms around his waist and pulled him down, welcoming the weight and the heat of his body as it pressed into hers.

"You breaking up with me, Castle?" she finally murmured into the darkness, feeling his breath against her neck, his slightly quickened heartbeat against her chest.

"Never," he breathed, his voice rough, fervent.

She ran her fingers through his hair. "_Love fled and paced upon the mountains overheard…_" She quoted the poem back to him softly, voice tinged with her unspoken question, wanting to know what he was trying to tell her.

He was quiet for a long time. He rolled to his side and pulled her with him. He held her tightly, possessively, still a little desperate. "I'm not going to live forever," he said.

"_Castle,_" she breathed, pressing a firm kiss to his lips, partly to stop the words coming from his mouth and partly because she couldn't _not _kiss him when he was holding her like this, his face dark and haunted and so scared.

She was so in love with him.

"You'll probably outlive me," he said, so matter-of-fact, so resigned that it scared her because _god _she could not lose this man.

She kissed him again, harder this time. "Castle," she said. "Shut _up. _You're not dying."

"But Kate—"

"I don't care how close we came today," she said. Her eyes flashed. So fierce. So beautiful. So _alive_. "We're okay. And that's all that matters."

He nodded. "Okay," he murmured, but the fear was still there, stirring in the blue of his eyes. She wished she could make it go away.

He kissed her and felt her arch into him, her hand at the back of his head to keep him in place. He pressed deeper, parting the seam of her lips with his tongue. She tasted like mint toothpaste. He never felt more alive than when he kissed her.

He drew her closer. Dipped his head to press his lips to the underside of her jaw and neck. She whimpered softly, clutching at his shoulders. She slung a leg across his hip. Reached down between them to pull her t-shirt over her head. She leaned towards him, wishing he would roll over her again, press her down into the mattress. She wanted the weight of his chest against hers, the pressure in her lungs, muscle and skin and heat and blood. Know all the ways he was alive.

"_Castle,_" she breathed, tugging him towards her.

But he ignored her whispered pleas. He put his hands on her shoulders and guided her down against the sheets. He bent his head and kissed the angle of her collarbone, the valley between her breasts, lips ghosting over the puckered skin there—another close call, perhaps the closest of all.

He dipped lower, his movements deliberate and reverent. Worshipful. She never felt more beautiful than when he was touching her.

He kissed the underside of her breast, her belly button, the soft skin of her lower stomach. When his lips hit the waistband of her pajama bottoms, he paused, and looked back up at her.

"I do love your pilgrim soul," he murmured. He pressed his palms to her stomach. Smoothed them outward and gripped her hips. "And one day, when I'm gone, you can read the books I wrote for you and know that to me, you were perfect."

She swallowed hard, fighting the tears building behind her eyes, but it was no use. It was too much. She didn't want him to die. Didn't want to think about how close he'd come today.

And she'd never heard him say it. Admit in so many words that those books were for her. Only for her. Love letters to the woman he was falling in love with.

"Rick, I—"

She broke off, her voice cracking around a sob. He moved back up her body then and drew her towards him, draping her over his body. She relaxed against him. Her tears fell and they were quiet tears, knowing tears, tears that had seen the future.

"Please don't die," she said, feeling the dampness of her tears against his bare chest.

He took a deep breath, lifting her with it. His heart thudded beneath her cheek. "Okay," he said.

She closed her eyes, thinking that he was perfect to her to, thinking she should quit her job and run away with him, thinking about escaping to the stars and spending her life burning endlessly in the night sky.

—

_A little bittersweet, but still filled with Caskett love. The poem Castle quoted is by William Butler Yeats. It's awesome. You should read it and then a hundred times more. And when you're done, come back and review my story! _


End file.
